


Aftermatch

by puckity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied Masturbation, Love/Hate, M/M, Quidditch, Shower Nudity, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-06
Updated: 2005-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1900233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Quidditch match and with the team showers out of service, Harry is forced to share his bathing time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermatch

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005 before I finished the series/before all the books came out, so this deals with canon only through PoA. The time period is purposely ambiguous and so it would have to be somewhat AU, though I would place the characters at between 16 and 17 years old.
> 
> Beta’d by my old editing triad: Emmy, Amber, and Rachel.
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

“Bloody showers. Bloody plumbing. Bloody elements and inclement weather.” Harry was muttering in a disgruntled sort of way as he stood staring at the huge oak doors; or rather, staring at the silver words that seemed to be burning against the wood: ‘SLYTHERIN SHOWER ROOM’.

_Bloody Slytherins._

His hand hung suspended in midair, dangerously close to that dull brass door handle. He could feel the mud hardening in his untamed hair. His robes looked like he had been out tending one of Hagrid’s ridiculous creatures, all grass and unidentifiable brown splotches. Hermione had been kind enough to enchant his glasses against the rain, so at least now he would be able to see his impending doom. It was all rather unfortunate, because everything had been going quite well up to this point.

That afternoon’s match had brought another Gryffindor victory, made all the sweeter because of the chance fly-by Harry had with Malfoy—which ended in the Slytherin seeker plummeting headlong into the teacher’s box and hitting Snape as though Harry had been aiming for him all along. This naturally meant that tomorrow’s Potions would see Snape finding any excuse he could to get Harry into detention. Bloody Snape.

But at this moment Harry had other, more pressing matters to deal with. Like whether he should announce his entrance into the enemy locker room, or whether he should just slip in as quietly as possible and pray that he wouldn’t run into anyone. It had taken half an hour of Harry milling about outside said locker rooms in a slightly creepy way to ensure that he would be alone for the shortest shower he had ever taken.

When Filch had cornered the team on their way to the field and informed them that due to flooding and a ruptured pipe, the Gryffindor shower room was out of commission, Harry had been annoyed. When Filch told them that this meant they would have to use the Slytherin shower room after the match, Harry had been horrified. Just thinking about having to walk about barefoot in a place that had seen the likes of Draco Malfoy naked was something that…well, something that Harry did not want to think about.

The heavy door lurched shut and Harry froze. He waited—without breathing—for some Slytherin straggler to show themselves. Nothing moved as blood pulsed in Harry’s ears, and he dashed in-between a row of lockers, feeling far less vulnerable there than right by the door. He had made a point to send his Firebolt back with Ron, anticipating Malfoy trying to snatch it while his guard was down. He sat on one of the silver benches, mentally noting how much nicer the Slytherin showers were when compared with the Gryffindor showers. Probably Lucius Malfoy’s generous donations at work. The place reeked of rotten money.

Harry pulled off his boots and stuffed his soaked wool socks inside them. Then he shrugged off his robes and folded them neatly beside him on the bench. One of Mrs. Weasley’s lovely sweaters clung to his thin torso. Careful not to stretch it, Harry peeled it off and placed it next to his robes. He had just started to unbutton his trousers when a sharp gust of chilled air reminded him of something.

“Towel, right.” Harry darted between locker rows in search of the towel chest. Circling back to the door, he spotted the wooden box with a massive Slytherin crest painted on it; in a gaudy sort of fashion, Harry noted. He took two large green towels—just in case—and raced over to his things, sure that they would be gone when he got there. That was what being around Slytherin did to people. It made them bloody paranoid.

Harry made sure that he was completely unclothed for the least amount of time possible. With a surprisingly long towel wrapped securely around his hips, he folded up his trousers and pants and walked towards the showers, arms crossed tightly over his chest. As he stared into the empty room, the most unwelcome thought of Malfoy having been in there relatively recently, nude and washing all the dirt and whatever pieces of Snape he had left on him off, forced itself into Harry’s mind. Determined not even to grace that image with a disgusted grunt, Harry reached in and turned on the nearest shower. Waiting for the steam to fill enough of the room so that he could forget just how uncomfortable this whole experience was, Harry glared at dim corners, trying to will some justification for his overwhelming delusions of persecution.

Trying to think of anything but plotting Slytherins—particularly one strangely pale plotting Slytherin—Harry came back to his cruel reality when his glasses, which he had forgotten to take off, began to steam over. One spell for rain, another for steam. Harry felt that was an unnecessary oversight on the part of magic in general. He sighed and resigned himself to this fate. Pushing his glasses as far back on the shelf outside the showers as he could, Harry yanked off the towel with an unintentional flourish and hooked it over the wall rack before literally jumping into the steam and unexpectedly searing water.

“Ah! Bloody, fucking plumbing!” If Harry hadn’t been so concerned with stopping the horrible burning sensation on his lower abdomen, he would have clamped his hands over his mouth in paranoid terror.

“I bet Filch is behind this. Probably broke the pipes on purpose, that wanker, just so I could get scalded.” Harry was aware of how asinine this sounded, but the water really had been far too hot for general safety. It was a wonder that students weren’t reporting severe burns left and right. Especially Malfoy, who would leap at the chance to blow any small injury to moronic proportions.

Malfoy. What a bastard. Harry replayed the crash during the match, remembering the smashing wood and mad dash of feet as the spectators tried to get out of the line of flight. He remembered Snape’s sneer twisting into a look of shock and anticipated pain. And he remembered Malfoy’s scream, high-pitched like Moaning Myrtle’s cries, and shrill with a sort of uncontrollable fear. Harry winced as he thought of feeling anything like pity for his archenemy. Damn, bloody Malfoy.

“And what did I do to you, Potter?” That voice was impossible. Impossible, but unmistakable. Beneath its smooth drawl there was a bitter edge. Harry thought of sinking down into the mist and, if there was any mercy in the world, dying right there and then.

“What did I do to you today, anyway.” Harry couldn’t find the slightest hint of his voice to make a biting retort, or to answer at all. Which was good, because Malfoy wasn’t really asking a question.

“In fact, the last time I checked it was you, Potter, who sent me hurdling into the stands. The very hard, extremely painful stands. I don’t think I thanked you properly for that.” From the sounds that he could make out—that voice and the faint shower spray—Harry concluded that Malfoy was in the farthest corner from him. No splashes. That meant that he wasn’t moving, towards Harry or away from him. Harry couldn’t turn around, couldn’t pry his blurred vision from the water drops on the wall tiles. And if Malfoy was going to ‘thank him’ he probably didn’t want to turn around anyway.

“Scared, Potter?” Harry spun to face nothing. The skin on the back of his neck that Malfoy’s warm breath had just touched was searing. The combination of the steam and his blurry eyesight produced only fuzzy patches of white moving against the gray shower walls. He searched frantically for a clue as to where that despicable Slytherin seeker was hiding. His eyes finally settled on the vague figure of a person with hair and skin silver like those awful words on the heavy oak doors that had started this nightmare. The figure had stopped shifting in a way that almost made Harry believe Malfoy had been washing himself. He was still over in that far corner.

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy wasn’t even making an attempt to sound polite. Harry could picture his cold eyes narrowing in an ominous way. And still he couldn’t say anything. Maybe the steam had swollen his vocal chords. Yes, that sounded plausible.

“You know, you really ought to stop staring at me.” Malfoy had turned to face Harry full-on. His body was so light that Harry couldn’t distinguish what was steam and what was skin.

“People might start to think you’re a pervert.”

Harry made a choking sound in his throat before he finally managed to say something. “Get over yourself, Malfoy. If I wanted to be a pervert, you would be the last person I’d ogle.” For a moment, Harry wondered why he wasn’t outright denying the accusation. He decided he should add some sort of explanation to help his case.

“Besides, I don’t have my glasses on. I can’t tell you from the wall.” That sounded better.

Malfoy didn’t say anything; he just made a noise that sounded like a sarcastic snort, if that was even possible. Then that pale figure turned away from Harry, and continued to make what looked like a ridiculous show of showering. From what Harry could make out, Malfoy was rubbing his arms, one by one, and then began to dramatically scrub his neck and shoulders. Suddenly that head—the entire top half being the color of white gold, reaching down to where cold gray eyes undoubtedly were—turned to glance behind those freshly cleaned shoulders and Harry realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was caught. Unfortunately he had no idea what it was, exactly, that he had been caught at.

“You know, you almost had me convinced there, Potter. Not that I can blame you, you worthless prat.” Draco Malfoy seemed to have a unique talent for making a sentence sound both seductive and threatening. Harry could have sworn that his stomach had just turned.

“Thanks to you, Potter, the whole left side of my body will be turning a charming shade of black and blue over the next few days.”

“Why don’t you stop whining and go to Madam Pomfrey, then. If she can re-grow bones I’m sure she can reverse a little minor bruising.” Harry knew he shouldn’t be provoking Malfoy, but he hated this feeling of vulnerability, of exposure. It wasn’t even a level playing field without his glasses.

“Minor bruising? Your juvenile sense of humor does not amuse me.” Harry scoffed, louder than he had to. “You are just lucky that Professor Snape broke my fall, otherwise my face would be just as hideous as yours.”

“Oh, what a shame that would be. Then who would I ogle?” The conversation had deteriorated into childish insults, if it had ever been anything else. To overcompensate for the odd sensation in his stomach, Harry spat his retort with the venom he reserved for the much nastier Draco Malfoy moments.

The problem was that he had said it a bit too sharply, a bit too cruelly. Malfoy had caught his bluff. Bloody Malfoy.

“You know what is perfect about this situation, Potter?” Malfoy was running his fingers through his matted hair, pushing it back from his face. Then he took a step towards Harry. Harry started to think of all the very bad things that could happen in a locker room with just him and Malfoy, and no one else to hear the screams.

“There is no bumbling Weasel, no annoying Mudblood, no interfering professors, no all-mighty Dumbledore. There is no one but you and me. And you can’t see.” Malfoy was now within arm’s reach, and Harry watched his nostrils flare. Then his eyebrow arched, and his eyes dropped down from Harry’s face to a much lower place on his body.

“You can’t see what I can see.” Harry followed his line of sight. He landed squarely on a part of him that was most definitely not where it should be. It was rather stiffer—for the complete lack of a better term—than he would have preferred. Oh fucking hell.

Harry looked up to see a sick kind of grin spread across Malfoy’s smug face. He waited for the remark, the joke, the contemptuous laugh. He waited for the complete and utter humiliation that would inevitably follow this mess. Later, he could blame this on an uncontrollable physical reaction, common to all boys at his age, wizard and muggle alike. But right now, Harry was wondering if there was a way he could make himself lose consciousness without causing any type of permanent brain damage.

“Oh, can you see that then?” Malfoy’s innocence wasn’t at all convincing. Harry avoided looking anywhere near those smirking lips. He settled instead for staring at Malfoy’s hand, which was resting on his sharp hip. Then, as if on command, that hand snaked its way across that pale stomach and dipped down into the steam, stilling at a place that Harry didn’t need to see to know what was going on.

Harry couldn’t do anything but stare at that patch of blessedly thick steam. In his head he kept repeating that he would rather have his eyes gouged out with a dragon scale than watch this. As it was, his own hands were clenched tightly at his side. Since Malfoy had brought Harry’s embarrassing situation to his attention, he had been fighting the powerful urge to indulge in the same activity that Malfoy was now throwing back in his face.

Malfoy’s arm jerked rather violently. There was a sharp intake of air. But Harry couldn’t tell which of them had done it, or if they both had. Too disturbed by whatever was occurring just under that fog, Harry forced himself to meet Malfoy’s eyes. If he had expected sincere warmth or some sign of modesty, he was sorely mistaken. Those gray-blue eyes glowed silver, just as cold as ever. But something was burning deep within them. Something like rage, like hatred. Something like desire. Harry felt a chill, but wasn’t sure if it was because of the ice or the heat in that liquid silver.

That hand made another sharp movement where Harry was refusing to look. Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered, and his mouth split open into a predatory smile. Harry thought he looked like an animal, baring his teeth.

Harry’s eyes flickered downward for an instant as he gave into temptation and Malfoy jerked his arm again. Harry looked up immediately and chose to ignore the voice in his mind that was whispering for him to reach across and touch that pale body. Now Malfoy was watching Harry, those eyes, that smile, all challenging him to join the game.

 _The game._ Of course that was all this was. Not that Harry had thought it was anything else. This was all just another one of Malfoy’s schemes. Just another way he thought he could destroy Harry. Suddenly, Harry wasn’t nervous or embarrassed or excited. And neither was his prick.

“Shove off, Malfoy.” He spoke in the most damaging tone he could think of: indifference. Then he turned, rinsed off as fast as he could manage and grabbed his towel from the rack. He tried to look nonchalant as he dashed away from those showers and towards his clothes.

“Bloody, fucking, damn…bloody Malfoy!” Harry threw one of his boots at the pristine green lockers, smiling at the black smear it left. He wished he could ruin Malfoy’s pristine face instead. Malfoy wasn’t handsome or pretty or anything even remotely attractive, but his arrogance held a certain aggravating allure. His whole appearance was about maintaining a façade. Harry was beginning to understand why Ron wanted to punch Malfoy all the time.

Harry had just gotten his trousers on when he felt a hand grab his shoulder rather painfully. In one swift movement, Malfoy had flipped him around and slammed him against the lockers. It was much faster than Harry could have possibly anticipated, with the nails digging into his neck and the thigh pushing between his legs and all. Oh, and then there was that predatory mouth crushing against his own sadly unprepared lips. He was light-headed and dizzy. He was swaying against the other arm that had pinned his hips, and his arse was being dug into by a very poorly placed lock. It was obvious that Malfoy was trying to suffocate him. Harry was sure he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was.

When Malfoy pulled away his face was flushed and his eyes were burning. Harry saw his own angry defiance mirrored in them. And maybe…maybe, he could catch a flicker of uncertainty as well. Afraid of what else he would see, Harry shifted his gaze to the row of lockers just over Malfoy’s shoulder.

Staring at the silver number plate on the locker directly across from him, Harry felt those fierce lips brush past his skin as Malfoy leaned in to whisper against his ear. “So there are some things you can see without these, eh Potter?” Harry’s eyes refocused to see Malfoy casually handing him the glasses that he hadn’t realized he’d forgotten. He hastily put them on and caught that cold look settling again, turning those silver eyes back to gray.

“Oh, and before you think of trying to use me as a bludger again, remember that it is your word against mine, concerning what just happened in those showers. And,” Malfoy added with a malicious grin, “You couldn’t see.” Blackmail. No, Harry wasn’t surprised.

Bloody Malfoy.


End file.
